


In The Dark We Find Our Way

by ygrainette



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Femslash February, Fluff and Smut, Light BDSM, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 16:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3453734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ygrainette/pseuds/ygrainette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Brienne needs Sansa to take care of her. To make her forget everything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Dark We Find Our Way

**Author's Note:**

> My second offering for Femslash February!
> 
> This is nothing but porn, and a tiny bit of modern!political!AU in there. Light BDSM with a loving context/purpose. Dom!Sansa because why the hell not. As ever you can find me at [tumblr.](http://capricorn-child.tumblr.com)

It's hot, out in the California desert. Hot in a way that Sansa, growing up in England's North York Moors, has never known before. So hot that even when the sun has sunk down below the horizon and the stars have come out, the air is still heavy with it, and she feels it like a physical thing. It's delicious.

She and Brienne are laid out on their picnic blanket to watch the Perseid meteor shower light up the sky. They lie side-by-side, just barely touching at shoulder and hip, silent in that way people are when they know each other so well words are no longer needed. Both of them appreciate silence. That was the whole point of this road trip: to get away. Leave behind all the drama and the bullshit, the well-meaning friends and relations who are nonetheless suffocating in their concern, the not-so-well-meaning hangers-on who don't give a damn and just want to _know_. Even if it's just for a few days, out here it feels like they could be the only two people in the world.

Another meteor arcs across the black, bright and sudden, and Sansa gasps, then laughs at herself, reaching to squeeze Brienne's hand. Her girlfriend squeezes back briefly, smiles but doesn't laugh.

And Sansa _knows_. She pushes herself up on one elbow. "You're thinking about it again, aren't you?"

Brienne meets her eyes, then glances away, mouth twisting. "I just – we have to head back tomorrow."

"Yeah." Sansa leans in, tucks a stray lock of blonde hair behind Brienne's ear. "Tomorrow's another day, love."

"I just." Brienne's jaw clenches tight, and she grips Sansa's hand tight. "Can't stand it if they – I don't care what they say about me, but if they – if the tabloids drag _your_ name through the mud, I –" she breaks off, biting her lip, eyes screwed shut.

"Oh, no." Sansa strokes the back of Brienne's hand, ducks her head to kiss the knuckles. "Don't you worry about me."

She means it. Sansa's used to being in the public eye, has been all her life. Seven hells, her _baby photos_ were in the papers back home. This whole business with Renly, the supposed _love triangle_ , it's just a half-baked scandal trumped up by the Lannister-owned media to discredit the young politician. Sansa and her family have brazened out far worse in their time. After all the ugliness of the whole Joffrey situation a few years back, and more recently, Robb's broken engagement and shotgun marriage, this is small fry for her.

But for Brienne, though … not so much.

"I can't – Sansa, I wanted this to be a good night for us, but I can't stop _thinking_ about it," Brienne says, biting at her bottom lip savagely.

"I know." Sansa leans over to kiss her mouth, sweet at first, soft and gentle, getting fiercer as Brienne responds, pushing up into her hungrily. She runs fingers through Brienne's shock of tangled hair, frames her face with her palms and holds her in place to ravage her mouth. "Let me take care of you, okay? Let me take care of you, sweetheart. Take your mind off it."

Brienne lets out a long, shaking breath. "Yes," she whispers. "Sansa, _yes_."

It's all the permission Sansa needs. She straddles Brienne, knees planted either side of her hips. Instinctively Brienne's hands come up to rest on Sansa's waist, stroking the soft cotton of the oversized white t-shirt she's wearing as a nightgown. Sansa grabs her wrists, long fingers gripping them with bruising force, leans over to push them up above Brienne's head. She pins them with her right hand, traces Brienne's lower lip with her left thumb. Long red hair brushing Brienne's face, Sansa leans in close, stares into clear blue eyes gone hooded with lust.

"Red, yellow, green?" She's not going to push Brienne, not tonight, going to keep everything well within both of their comfort zones – but she still asks. She always asks.

Brienne lets out a faint moan at the ritual question. "Green," she says, tongue darting out to tease at the tip of Sansa's thumb.

"Mm, good." Sansa slides her thumb into Brienne's mouth, lets her suckle on it a little. Presses her wrists down against the ground. "Keep your hands there," she orders. "Understood?" When Brienne nods, she kisses her forehead. "Good girl."

Sansa lets go of Brienne's wrists, and sits back, weight resting on Brienne's hips. Crossing her arms at the waist, she takes hold of her t-shirt by the hem, and pulls it over her head in one smooth motion, tosses it aside to fall into the sand. Keeping her eyes on Brienne, not looking away for a second, she runs a hand slowly up her own stomach, cups her breast and thumbs at the nipple. She sways her head slowly from side to side, biting her lower lip at the sensuous sweep of her long hair over her bare shoulders.

It's a deliberate tease – touching herself, making a show of it. Even the thing with her hair, she knows how much Brienne loves to run her fingers through it, bury her hands in it, loves the red of it against pale skin. Knows how much it'll be killing her to look, unable to touch.

Brienne's breathing hard already, cheeks flushing in a way that makes Sansa want to kiss every one of her darling little freckles. Instead, she starts to move her hips, rocking them gently against Brienne, the rhythm lazy, torturous. She pinches at her own nipple, slides her other hand down to stroke delicately between her legs. Closes her eyes and arches her back.

"Oh Gods –" Brienne gasps it out, hips twitching underneath Sansa. Denied contact, she shifts in place, trying to push up against Sansa as best she can. Wrists still obediently crossed above her head.

When she sees that – Brienne's strong fingers twisting and squirming helplessly in the dust – desire flares hot and rich in Sansa's belly. She grabs the base of the tank top Brienne is wearing, and yanks it up, revealing taut, toned muscle, and her breasts, small and high. The dark nipples are peaked and eager, just waiting for her, begging for her, and yes. _Yes_. Sansa wants.

Abandoning touching herself, Sansa curls forward over Brienne – hair falling like a curtain to either side of them. Brushes the palms of her hands lightly, ever so lightly, over the nubs of those nipples.

Brienne's breath catches, and her whole body jerks at the contact. Trying to push her chest up into the contact, desperate for more.

Sansa lifts her hands away, tutting. "Ah, ah. Be good. Stay still, that's a good girl. You gonna do that for me, sweetheart?"

"Yes, yes, I – Sansa, _please_ –"

Sansa grins, looking up through her eyelashes at Brienne's flushed face. Watches her gasp, face going slack, as Sansa runs fingertips over her nipples. Rolls them, tweaks them, now gentle, now fierce.

When she leans down and darts her tongue out, swirling over the smooth skin, the flesh drawn tight and ready, Brienne groans. Groans long and deep, a sound dragged out from the core of her. Sansa can feel it, feel the vibrations of it through her lover's chest, feel just how deep Brienne's desire goes.

Here she is, all spread out and helpless under Sansa's hands, shirt yanked up as she lets Sansa have her way –

It's intoxicating.

Sansa curls her tongue around Brienne's nipple, suckles it into her mouth. Brienne's moan goes high and breathy, and when Sansa bites down her hips give a sharp, reflexive buck.

"Easy, easy, I've got you." She lets go of that nipple, is gratified to see it's reddened and swollen from her attentions, and licks her way over to Brienne's other side. Sets about sucking on it as though trying to give Brienne an A-grade hickey, until she's moaning almost continuously, breathing ragged and heavy, then pulls off. Blows gently on the exposed flesh, runs the very tips of her fingernails in delicate swirls over Brienne's breasts.

Brienne lets out a wordless, plaintive whine of protest. Sansa's lips curl up into a smirk. She leans in close enough for her breath to ghost warm and damp over Brienne's nipple as she says, "Mm? Is there something you want, babe?"

"Ngh – Sansa, just – touch me, damn it – ah!"                                                   

"As you wish," Sansa says, and bites down on the breast beneath her mouth. Runs a hand up to knead at Brienne's neck, twisting in her hair, running over her cheeks and lips – Brienne nips at her fingers, licks them – and Sansa shifts her weight, pressing their hips together and pushing her knee between Brienne's thighs.

She moves her knee, pressing it up just so, and Brienne tosses her head, gasping. Grinding her hips down against that touch. When Sansa lifts it away, she humps at the air, desperate. Squirming against the ground. The plush of her lower lip is caught between her teeth, her tanned skin glowing with sweat.

"Please. Please – oh Gods –"

Sansa reaches down between Brienne's legs. Traces her fingernails up and down the trembling muscles of her strong thighs. Watches, smiling, as the helpless rocking of Brienne's hips reaches a feverish, frantic tempo when her touch rises up – up to the seam of her thigh – and then back down.

Brienne lets out a wail, a high-pitched keen that makes Sansa chuckle as she tosses her head from side to side. Fingers grasping at nothing, scrabbling in the dust above her head.

"I have you," she says, leaning forward to whisper soft and intimate into Brienne's ear. "I have you, sweetheart, I've got you here at my mercy, and I can do anything –" she scrapes her nails down the inside of Brienne's thigh, hears her breath catch, "- anything I want to you. Can't I?"

She draws back, just enough to meet Brienne's blue eyes, huge in her flushed face. She breathes, "Yes. Anything. Anything. Whatever you want. Anything. _Sansa_."

Her voice is hoarse, wrecked, she sounds fucked-out already and Sansa hasn't even touched her yet. And here she is, writhing on the ground, shirt yanked crudely up to expose her, wrists crossed obediently where Sansa put them, and Gods. _Gods_. Sansa feels like – like a queen – a goddess – like she has a lioness purring like a harmless kitten beneath her touch. Like her blood and bones are on fire with lust and power, alive with it.

"Good girl," she says again, throaty, and presses the palm of her hand hard against Brienne's crotch.

Even through the fabric of the boxers Brienne wears, she can feel the shocking heat of her. How wet she is, seeping through the underwear. Sansa has to close her eyes for a moment to focus, to keep ahold of where she is and what she's doing, to stop herself from flying apart at the seams with want – because, like this, Brienne needs her. Needs her to keep her cool, keep them on track. So for a moment she just breathes.

But beneath her motionless hand, Brienne's hips are rocking. Trying in vain to fuck herself on that smooth, unmoving surface, her breath coming in pants.

For a moment Sansa keeps them like this, torturing them both, and then she relents. Starts to move. Slowly at first, rubbing gently up and down over Brienne's mound, raking her thighs with her fingernails at the same time. Curling over her to mouth at her breasts, her navel.

"Oh Gods, oh Gods, Sansa, oh Gods." Brienne's words are falling all over themselves, incoherent. As Sansa picks up the pace, speeds up to finally match the rhythm of Brienne's hips, she can feel her lover physically shaking beneath her. Waves of arousal-tension flowing through her, all those toned, powerful muscles twitching and straining.

She's close. Sansa knows Brienne, knows her so well by now, from the inside out. Knows all her responses and her tells, and she knows she's very close. And so she increases the tempo again, thumb unerringly homing in on the swollen clit she can feel right there, grinding against it, as hard and fast as she can go. Lifts her head from biting at Brienne's nipples to tell her, to _order_ her, "Come. You're going to come for me, _right now_."

And with the flat of her free hand she spanks Brienne lightly between her legs – barely more than a tap – once, twice, thrice – and then with a bitten-out cry, Brienne comes.

Sansa feels it. Feels the way all Brienne's muscles go tight, straining, back arching, tendons cording in her neck and shoulders, and then relaxes. Lets out a soft sigh, and sinks back down, loose and pliant. Beneath Sansa's hand, the boxers are sodden, soaked through.

Sansa doesn't stop.

Oh, she slows the motion of her hand, but she doesn't stop. Moves her thumb in gentle unyielding circles over Brienne's clit, feeling the shudders run through her body every time Sansa brushes over that sensitised bundle of nerves. So responsive. So very _present_ in each moment.

"That's my good girl." With her free hand Sansa pets at Brienne's hair, palms her sweaty cheek, lets her kiss Sansa's palm, her knuckles. Ducks her face back down to roll Brienne's nipple back into her mouth, suckle. Then she shifts, working her way down Brienne's taut belly, kissing and licking at her, luxuriating in the salty-warm taste of her, the sensual feel of all that skin on skin. Nuzzles the sharp strong cut of her hipbones, scrapes her teeth over them.

Gods, she just – all the time Sansa's spent watching Brienne training, working out in the gym, running, competing in all her Mixed Martial Arts, in awe of the strength and the skill and the beauty of her. And she still can't believe she actually gets this. She gets to be with this gorgeous girl, this incredible woman, gets to touch her, gets to _worship_ her. It's almost too much.

Suddenly Sansa loses the will to draw it out, to tease. She pulls Brienne's boxers down, sits back to let her kick them off. Then she grips Brienne's strong thighs, pushes them as far apart as she can, spreading her wide open.

For a moment, she sits on her haunches and just _looks_. Entranced.

Then Brienne lets out this little mewl, and Sansa's hands flex, fingernails digging in to the sensitive inner-thigh flesh, and she leans forward. First simply presses her face against Brienne and breathes her in. The rich raw smell of woman, of sweat, of lust. Then she relinquishes her hold on Brienne's left leg, slides her fingers between the blushing lips of Brienne's cunt to peel them apart, and lets her tongue flash out.

At the first lap of Sansa's tongue over her, Brienne jerks, convulsive, breath catching in her chest. Hips rocking, pressing against Sansa's face as she does it again, pointing her tongue and swirling over the bud of her clit.

"Fuck – oh fuck –"

There's nothing Brienne loves more than this – grinding down against the flick and flash of Sansa's tongue, the soft movements of her lips, tangling her fingers in Sansa's long hair, holding her head right _there_ as Sansa lets her fuck her face. It must be killing her not to touch, not to have that handhold. Fingers closing on nothing, fists empty where there should be locks of red curls. And yet, and yet she's not moving her hands. Keeping them up over her head. Just like Sansa told her to.

Abruptly Sansa breaks from the swift delicate motion of her tongue and _sucks_. Suckles Brienne's clit into her mouth, just the faintest hint of teeth – and pushes two fingers home inside of her. Brienne moans, hoarse and raw and shocked, the sound drawing an answering gasp from Sansa, muffled against her lover's cunt.

As she starts to move her fingers, sliding in and out, quick sharp motions in counterpoint to the lazy, languid roll of her tongue, Brienne starts to shake. Whole body tremors. Moaning almost constantly now, yelping high and almost pained every time Sansa crooks up her fingers, hitting that secret spot inside. Hips coming up off the ground, straining with her every muscle – Sansa can feel the inner walls of her clenching around her fingers, rapid and rhythmic, as Sansa pushes her to an ever higher climax. So wet now, and there's an answering slickness between Sansa's own thighs, pulse beating between her legs. Gods, she'll never tire of this –

Brienne's breathing, her gasping, wordless vocalisations suddenly take on a different tenor, sobbing, sounding half-distraught, half-ecstatic. She gets like this, sometimes, when Sansa wrings more than one orgasm from her, overwhelmed and overwrought. There's enough rationality left in Sansa's overheated mind that she lifts her head, grips Brienne's thigh hard, grounding.

"I've got you. I've got you, sweetheart, just let it – let go. I've got you. Let it happen, darling."

And she does. Clenching down vise-hard around Sansa's fingers as she flings her head from side to side, arching up off the ground, voice rising to a scream – a rush of yet more wetness – and Sansa fucks her right through it, pressing hard and firm against her spot. Until finally Brienne subsides, lying back down, chest heaving, trembling but no longer spasming with the force of her pleasure.

"That's my good girl, that's my good girl." Sansa presses a kiss to the inside of her thighs, to her belly, then sits up. Her own lust is unslaked, desire burning beneath her skin, making her feel feverish. She reaches up to grab Brienne's wrists – still there, still crossed and pressed into the dust, so damn _obedient_ – and tells her, "You can move. Brienne, you can move."

Instantly she surges up. Grabs at Sansa, all uncoordinated, flailing limbs, so very far from her usual athlete's grace. Buries her fingers in Sansa's hair, runs them up and down her naked back, hands shaking. Kisses her neck, her cheeks, her shoulders, open-mouthed and loose. It's like being body-slammed with love, with sheer physical affection. And suddenly Sansa's _desperate_.

When Brienne kisses at her collarbone, Sansa gets a hand at the crown of her head and pushes down. Brienne glances up at her, looking for confirmation, for instruction, and though the meaning's pretty clear, Sansa tells her, "Do it. Just – get down there already, sweetheart, I'm dying here."

And she does. Sansa sits back, elbows planted in the hot desert dust to hold herself up, head hanging back bonelessly as Brienne buries her head between her legs. Eats her out messily, sloppily, with absolutely no finesse to it, nothing but sheer instinctual still-shaking desire and enthusiasm, broad fingers scissoring roughly inside Sansa's cunt just the way she likes it. It's rough and ready and wild and that's all it takes, Sansa having held herself so close to that edge for so long that going over it is the easiest thing in the world.

Her climax comes on her like heavy ocean waves breaking on the rocks at White Harbour, rolling through her body from head to toe, knocking the breath from her. For a moment it tugs her under, vision whiting out, and then she comes back to herself, lying flat on her back and hauling Brienne back up with trembling hands.

"So good, you are so good," she gasps out. Wraps her arms around Brienne's neck, her legs around her waist, holds her as tight as she can, and rocks them both, side to side. "I love you so much, Brienne. My sweet girl. My Brienne."

Brienne presses her face to Sansa's chest. Her cheeks are damp. The release of orgasm, the intensity of a scene – even and especially one conducted on loving, gentle terms – she often cries, after. Sansa pets her hair, smoothes it, kisses it, strokes her back, tells her over and over, "I love you, I've got you. You're here, you're safe. My beautiful girl."

Presently she quiets. Lifts her head so they can kiss, softly, on the lips. Brienne's lips taste salty-sweet, and Sansa's stomach rolls over hotly with the thought that she is licking the taste of herself from out of Brienne's mouth, and Brienne doing the same from hers.

When they break the kiss, Brienne shifts from lying on top of Sansa to lying beside her, head on her shoulder, one arm thrown over her chest, an ankle kicked between Sansa's. Sansa winds her fingers in the dusty curls of Brienne's blonde hair. And they lie like that, Brienne in just her rucked-up old tank top, Sansa naked to the night, listening to each other breathe. Sansa could swear she feels the earth breathe beneath them as she stares up into the clear dark sky above.

In her head, she picks out the constellations Robb and their step-brother Jon taught her years ago, back when they were children at Winterfell. The hunter, the plough, the direwolf. Bran the Builder. The same as ever they were, as ever they will be.

Tenderly she strokes Brienne's flushed cheek. She can feel her girlfriend's breathing slowing, deepening as she falls toward sleep. Sansa will have to get the blankets and sleeping bags from their van in a moment, persuade a half-dozing Brienne into them, and then when morning comes she'll have to drive back towards the cities, towards home and their real lives and their responsibilities. But that's tomorrow, and this is now.

Another meteor streaks across the sky, and Sansa kisses the crown of Brienne's head and wishes that this moment might never end.


End file.
